


Can't Fight the Friction

by acaseofthemondays



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, ShieldShock - Freeform, and there was only one bed, and they were ROOMMATES, chilling in the woods, chopping trees and being grumpy, ish, late 30s Darcy, lumberjack Steve, more like lumberJACKED amiright?, retired steve, who won't put up with his bad attitude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-09-14 13:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16913475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaseofthemondays/pseuds/acaseofthemondays
Summary: The tags pretty much spell it out, but this fic is based around the idea that 15ish years after the events in the first Avengers movie, Steve decides to hang up the shield and retire to Vermont to live in a cabin and chop wood and wear an obscene amount of plaid. Coulson, now Director of SHIELD, has been trying to get Steve to temporarily come out of retirement but Steve isn't having it. In desperation, Coulson sends out his newest SHIELD field agent, one Darcy Lewis. She's older, wiser, and more stubbornly persistent than any other person Coulson has ever met, besides Rogers.Will she succeed in bringing in the cranky ex-superhero?What will happen when two indomitable forces meet head on? Who will be the victor?And who catches a case of the feels first?





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> It's me. I'm catching a case of the feels first. I've had this idea percolating for a bit but my beta made me responsible and finish one of my other WIPs before starting a new one. Because she is wise and knows how to get me to get my crap together. Love you ladyaudiophile, this fic is my love letter to you. 
> 
> This is my first foray into writing shieldshock so give me grace if I flub it.

There were many benefits to no longer being a woman in her 20s, or even early 30s. A certain hard won self-assuredness that came with age and wisdom and general not-give-a-fuckery that was appealing in a universal way. At 38, Darcy Lewis was living proof of this. She had survived Norse Gods and Dark Elves, fumbling boyfriends, grad school, any number of apocalypses, pantless geniuses, purple idiot bastards who didn’t understand math, and Dr. Jane Foster after eating nothing but bean burritos for a week straight. In her educated opinion, Darcy could handle pretty much anything by that point in her life, so wrangling a cranky old man into temporarily coming out of retirement should be painless enough. 

If only she could find the bastard. 

Her chained tires scraped and clattered over the paved road that she’d been trawling up and down for the last half hour, desperately trying to find the dirt road turn off that Coulson had assured her was along this stretch of abandoned road. It didn’t help that the venerable Steve Rogers had decided to spend his retirement in the most secluded section of the Green Mountains he could find and it also happened to be the dead of winter.  _ Who the hell even decides to move to Vermont? _

“People with more money than sense,” she irritably mumbled to herself, white knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel as the back half of her SHIELD issued SUV began to slip in a direction that was utterly counterproductive. It was a fight, and her dentist would be disappointed in the condition of her molars forever afterwards, but she regained control of the vehicle in time to catch an odd flicker of light at the side of the road. She narrowed her eyes, slowed to a stop before making a careful u-turn on the two lane highway, and headed back to that barely noticeable (unless you knew to look for it, which she  _ didn’t  _ but thank God for her stellar observational skills) shimmer. 

She tucked her tongue against her teeth and reminded herself to send Coulson a scathing email about not including in the briefing she’d been given the fact that Rogers’ place was hidden by the latest in hologram technology. There was no discernible road to be seen with the forest floor covered with at least a half foot of snow, but she turned the vehicle directly into that flickering wall, smack dab into the thick, gnarled trunk of a leafless tree. There was no impact as the SUV sliced smoothly through the illusion, and there on the other side was what could be vaguely described as a road. At the very least, it was a winding break in the close-knit trees that was wide enough for a car to pass through unscathed. Mostly. 

It was easier to appreciate the landscape now that she’d found the final leg of her journey. She had to hand it to the old guy, he knew how to pick a pretty bit of scenery. The road wound through the gentle sloping at the base of one of the mountains, the earth rising up on either side of her and disappearing behind the layered, twisted branches of whatever deciduous trees were native to the area. Snow tucked into the nooks and crooks of the branches glittered prettily under the noonday sun, giving the land the nostalgic innocence of a postcard. Interspersed among the deadened trees, bright spots of evergreen burst through the monochrome of landscape, occasionally accompanied by fat, red-coated squirrels scrambling across the branches. 

Darcy supposed there had to be other wildlife in the area. Coulson had warned her of black bears and the occasional moose, but if any were nearby, she didn’t see them, assuming they were either elsewhere or had fled in the wake of the guttural roar of the SUV engine. 

The path veered sharply to the right only to open up to the most picturesque little cabin Darcy had ever seen. It was a single story little wonder, the timbers the soft grey of eastern hemlock, with saddle-notch corners, a gabled roof with a stone chimney jutting above it, and a porch that wrapped around the entirety of the thing. Snow lined the roof and settled into little crumbling piles atop the porch railing and an honest-to-God wooden rocking chair was situated on the eastern facing section of the porch, purveying where the trees cleared enough that a brook wound its way past the house. She was certain if she were to step out of her car, she would immediately hear the happy chatter of water rolling over rocks and flirting with the fingers of ice that edged along the banks. To complete the look, smoke unfurled in languid curls from the chimney top.

Darcy scoffed and laughed, wondering to herself at the long line of agents who had previously failed to dislodge Rogers from his retirement. The man had to be a marshmallow, living in a place like this. She could just imagine him (her brain conjuring up a more chiseled version of her grandfather) sitting in his rocking chair, sipping on mugs of coffee and doing various elderly things. Perhaps … whittling? That seemed an old fashioned, manly craft perfect for a member of America’s Greatest Generation and a retired superhero.

Chewing on her lower lip and suddenly in good spirits, Darcy inched her vehicle up to the cabin, parking in the bit of clearing out front. She braced herself for the cold outside the warm haven of the car, wrapping a worn burgundy scarf around her neck and tugging on a pair of sleek black leather gloves. The snow crunched pleasantly beneath her boots as she stretched and rounded the front of the car. As expected, she could hear the clatter of the brook nearby and it completed the charming ambiance of the property. 

She half expected for Rogers to appear at the front door to politely greet her and perhaps offer her something hot to drink with a bunch of ‘ma’ams” and aw-shucks smiles. He was definitely home--she could see lights on in the frosty cabin windows and the smoking chimney was a dead giveaway. He might be retired but she’d been assured that Rogers was still in possession of his superhuman abilities so like hell had he not heard the roar of her engine. Maybe he’d fallen and couldn’t get up? Darcy snickered to herself at the fleeting image of a bespangled life alert commercial and then traipsed up the steps. She rapped her knuckles against the front door, stomping the snow off her boots while she waited. A flicker of movement drew her attention and she just barely caught the shift of sheer curtains behind the window on her left before she heard the bolt slide on the front door. 

The man who opened the door was not the one she was expecting. Sure, she’d seen plenty of historical pictures of the guy from World War II, and even a few from when they brought him off the ice right after Loki had his little temper tantrum in New York. But that had been  _ fifteen _ years ago. She’d barely been out of undergrad and was still interning with Jane at the time, practically a baby compared to her current maturity. She had assumed that Rogers would have looked more...mature. Which was perhaps foolish on her part because he hadn’t looked that much older than her when he was defrosted so why should she expect him to look elderly now when she certainly didn’t. Perhaps it was the fact that his dossier had listed him as being nearly  _ 110  _ years old. 

Rogers didn’t look a day over 45, shoulders as broad and heroic as ever beneath the red plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows and tails hanging over worn jeans. He’d partially ditched the clean cut look, having grown out a short beard, though his hair was still parted neatly to the side. He looked... _ good.  _ Really good. 

He also looked angrier than a wet hen. 

“What do you want?” He spit the words out tersely, eyeing her like she was a used car salesman, not a hint of politeness to be found.

Darcy blinked and then rallied, pasting on a warm smile. “Hi, Captain Rogers, my name’s Darcy Lewis. I’m here on behalf of Director Coulson.” She jutted her hand out into the space between their bodies expectantly. Rogers glanced at her gloved fingers, his brow lowering and blue eyes turning hard. 

“I’m retired,” he curtly replied, then turned on his heel, slamming the door in her face. 

A little indignant noise squeaked up Darcy’s throat. She stood blinking, mouth agape, for all of thirty seconds before her temper flared and she was pounding on the front door again. 

The door swung open again and Rogers stepped out onto the porch, his size intimidating and she unconsciously took a step back. He crossed his arms over his chest, face pinched in displeasure. 

“Look, ma’am,” well at least she’d gotten one ma’am, “I don’t care who you are. I know why Coulson sent you and I’m telling you I don’t give a damn. I. Am. Retired. I’m not leaving my home, not for Coulson, not for all the other agents he’s sent, and I’m sure as hell not leaving for you.” 

Darcy bit back on her anger with a twitch of her head and a steady breath. “Captain, I’m not asking you to do anything besides come in and  _ speak _ with Coulson. No assignment, no mission, he just wants to sit down with you.” 

Rogers lips tilted in a smirk. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

The comment made her bristle, all the more for the fact that it was technically correct. Rogers had been her first field assignment since switching career tracks and giving SHIELD work a shot. She’d met several career dead ends in her life, never quite finding her groove with anything to achieve the sense of success and accomplishment she craved. Being a SHIELD field agent seemed like her last shot at maybe making something of herself. All she wanted was to be  _ good  _ at something, be lauded for her work, find fulfillment in it, and, God willing, be  _ paid _ for it. She couldn’t very well start out her last shot with a big “L.” 

Rogers’ condescension mixed potently with Darcy’s inherent stubbornness to create one hell of a battle plan in her head. She was determined to bring Rogers back with her now, come hell or high water, because by God she had something to prove. 

Rogers’ gaze turned wary, having caught some of the hellishness flitting behind her eyes. “If Coulson wants to just ‘talk’ as you say, he can come by anytime. Until then, you can see yourself off.” He turned, returning to his home and snapping the door closed again. 

Darcy cocked her head to the side, chewing on her lower lip as she contemplated her next move. Her quarry was stubborn, that was evident enough, and content to never leave the comfort of his home. She’d just have to smoke him out, she decided. She briefly played with the idea of literally lighting his house on fire, but in the end she chose a method that wouldn’t land her with a felony charge. 

With a little spitting fire burning in her belly, she marched back to the SUV and grabbed her black overnight bag, slung it over her shoulder and stomped right back to Rogers’ front door. She didn’t bother knocking, instead kicking the base of the solid wooden door like an infuriated toddler. When Rogers opened the door, nostrils flared in irritation, she didn’t give him the chance to say a word before she shoved her bag into his chest and wedged past him into the cabin, walking around like she owned the place. 

“Excuse me?” Rogers asked, bewildered and still holding her bag between his heavy hands. 

Darcy lifted a brow, dropping into the power stance that Danvers had once taught her and promised would make men cower. Rogers didn’t exactly cower but he didn’t grab her by the back of her coat and throw her out on her ass either. “Oh, so now you want to use manners?” was her haughty response, hands on hips, chest up, feet shoulder width apart and chin up. 

Rogers dropped the bag, blue eyes going dark. “Get out.” 

Darcy smiled sweetly at him. “Oh, I’d love to, just as soon as you agree to come with me.” 

“That’s not happening.”

“Then I guess I’m staying,” she replied brightly. She began to turn slowly, taking in her new abode. “Nice digs, old man. You got anything to eat?” she asked, leaving the entryway and wandering through the visible entrance to the kitchen. She opened one cabinet and then another, “I am  _ starving.  _ Haven’t had anything since early this morning because it took me forever to find your hobbit hole,  _ you miserable old hermit.” _ The last she mumbled to herself but knew he’d heard it anyway based on the indignant noise that rumbled from his chest. 

At the sounds of heavy footfalls, Darcy looked up to see Rogers rounding into the kitchen. “Listen here, lady, you need to leave and you need to leave  _ now.”  _ He was wagging an authoritative finger at her, as if that would do a thing. 

She made a soft coo of triumph and pleasure as she spied a cookie tin in one of the cabinets she’d opened. Dragging the tin to her chest, she dug her nails under the lid to pry it open, smirking up at him when she was successful. “If you want me to leave, you can put your hands on my hot, tight little body and  _ make _ me.” 

Rogers just stared at her, his eyes flicking down her form briefly and then in the next moment the righteous anger was draining out of him and leaving him deflated. He made a dumbfounded grunt as if he didn’t have an argument for that.

“Come on, Captain,” she goaded him. “As strong as you are, picking me up would be nothing. So why don’t you come on over here and put your hands on a small, soft, unarmed woman who doesn’t stand a chance against you and throw me out on my ass? Is that the kind of man you are? The kind that hurts helpless women?” 

She could practically hear Rogers’ molars crack, a muscle ticking in his jaw as his hands fisted at his sides. “If you know anything about me, you know I’m not.” 

“Oh I’m betting on it. I hope you enjoy having a new roommate, Captain. Unless you want to go ahead and head back to D.C. with me?” She bit into one of the delicate little sugar cookies in the tin, distantly noting that they appeared to be homemade and perfectly delicious. 

Rogers made a noise that could be categorized as a growl and abruptly left the kitchen for the living area. “I’m not leaving,” he barked over his shoulder. 

“Wonderful,” she chirped, watching as he threw himself down into a leather chair in front of the fireplace, his back to her. “You got any milk to go with these cookies?” She watched his shoulders tense towards his ears and it took everything in her not to laugh. “Nevermind, I found it,” she said through a mouthful of cookie as she opened the fridge. 

The answering sound from the living room made her smile. She’d gotten Captain America to swear. At this rate, she was confident she could break him by the end of the day. 

 

***

 

She did  _ not  _ break him by the end of the day. In an unexpected turn of events, Darcy had found the one human being on the planet that happened to be more stubborn than she was. He masterfully ignored her at every turn, despite her employing every bad roommate etiquette she could think of. She drank his milk straight from the carton, left the cookie tin out and open on his coffee table, got crumbs all over his tastefully masculine leather sofa. She left greasy fingerprints on the spines of his books that lined the small brass bookshelf against the wall. She hummed to herself incessantly, loudly and off key. 

He wasn’t impervious, not by a long shot, though he did his damndest to appear that way, sitting in his chair by the fire and sedately reading a book. He couldn’t, however, hide the way a muscle ticked in his jaw every time she shifted in her seat. It was also pretty telling when he snapped his book closed and left the cabin entirely. She’d called out to him, asking if he was ready to head out to SHIELD headquarters, only to be told ‘no’ in no uncertain terms and that sometimes a man just needed “to go for a fucking  _ walk!”  _

Darcy took his temper in stride and used his absence as an opportunity to fully raid his kitchen, cooking herself a lovely dinner and leaving the kitchen in shambles afterwards. She’d had a college roommate who had done the same thing, never washing a damn dish the entire time they lived together, and it had driven her up the wall. She couldn’t imagine Rogers would enjoy cleaning up someone else’s mess anymore than she had. She couldn’t wait for him to get back from his walk. 

 

***

 

That Lewis woman was insane. And Coulson was a damned fool for hiring her. He might also be punishing Steve for his abject refusal to get pulled back into work. But he’d closed that chapter in his life, his heart too worn and ragged to keep going. He didn’t like to think of himself as jaded or bitter...but the simmering rage and despair that lived beneath his skin permanently now were evidence otherwise. 

That woman wouldn’t change that, even if he wanted to strangle her. He’d never met someone so blatantly rude and socially tone deaf. Or regular old tone deaf; the woman could not carry a tune in a goddamn bucket. He couldn’t tell if she was naturally that obnoxious or if she was simply doing it to get under his skin. As a skilled tactician himself, he had to respect her ingenuity. He didn’t think he would have ever come up with the idea to  _ annoy _ a person into submission. Well, Bucky might have said otherwise.

But Bucky was dead and it didn’t fucking matter what he would have said because he was  _ gone.  _

Steve stopped his brisk pace over the land, grasping at a sapling and uprooting it in one furious tug. He swung it overhead, watching it sail with grim satisfaction as it cracked into the thicker trunk of a nearby oak. Steve let the rage bubble up, pushing back the soured pain of having lost the last of his family--again--that last time more permanent than the others as he’d seen Bucky‘s cold body go into the ground with no secret organization to save him or infinity stone to bring him back. 

Steve closed his eyes against the sting of cold wind and hot, angry tears. He wished he’d thought to bring his coat before that hellion had run him off. Didn’t matter that the serum kept him toasty and prevented even the possibility of hypothermia, he still hated the cold. He’d been out of the ice for over a decade, almost two, but he still couldn’t shake that lingering dread when the temperature dropped. Perhaps he should have retired to Florida. 

He shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs, and opened his eyes, searching out a now familiar tree that grew tall and proud along the trail he’d begun to wear over the years. It was a naked silver maple, its wide, gnarled trunk climbing nearly a hundred feet into the air, and the thing might be even older than he was. Steve gripped the lowest branch in both of his callused hands, swinging up until he could begin to climb up along the trunk, going ever higher until he had to stop for fear that his weight would snap the branches beneath his feet. He found a spot about two-thirds up that was perfect for him to wedge into the vee of two branches, leaning his back against the trunk to look out at the world that opened up around him. 

The height brought clarity and a peace that he still didn’t quite understand. He’d grown up in a city, spent the majority of his life in cities, and he was still learning the gentle way life could be when his only company was the earth and its natural wonders. Something about being that high up--the cold wind cutting through the strands of his hair and playing at the ends of his beard, the small creatures of the woods milling around nearby, the way the valley rolled out away from him and the mountains soared up around him--it soothed the anger in him, if only for a while. 

He stayed in his spot, watching the weak winter sun sink behind the mountains until the light was near gone, casting the snow covered forest into shadows purple and blue as fresh bruises. With a sigh, he clambered back down from his perch. It would do no good to spend the night in a damn tree. He wasn’t a coward and like hell was he going to let that little viper run him out from his own home. At least, not for more than a few hours. 

 

***

 

She was a goddamn menace. 

He was fairly certain she had used every pot and pan he owned to make herself dinner and made a miserable mess of his entire kitchen in the process. To make matters worse, she hadn’t even made enough food for him so he was forced to wash all his dishes so he could  _ then  _ cook his own dinner. Whatever peace the maple had given him evaporated, as ephemeral as the soap suds coating his wrists. He cursed quietly to himself throughout cleaning and cooking for himself, but abruptly stopped when his heightened hearing picked up a soft chuckle coming from the living room. 

The broad was  _ laughing  _ at him. 

He finished his meal quickly, tossing his dishes in the sink and opting to wash them in the morning. He was old, he was tired, he was irritated, and he was going to bed, damn it. He only wished a handle of whisky would have done anything to soothe him to sleep because he could certainly use a drink.

Some lingering sense of gentlemanly manners and hospitality that Sarah Rogers had beaten into him forced him to wish Agent Lewis a curt goodnight before he scampered off to hide in his bedroom. She hadn’t responded with anything other than a quirk of her eyebrow and an assessing look that made his hair stand on end. He’d left before she could open that gob of hers and say something that would almost certainly get under his skin. 

Steve tossed about in his bed for he didn’t know how long. He would have liked to blame his restlessness on the 5’3” brunette menace currently doing God knows what in his living room, but the truth of the matter was that he hadn’t been able to fall asleep easily since before he went into the ice. Something about the serum seemed to keep his brain humming with a low, constant buzz--always aware, always assessing--and with the serum also giving him unnatural endurance, he didn’t have the mercy of normal human exhaustion to quiet his thoughts. More often than not, the most he could hope for was a trance-like state where the hours passed faster than during his waking hours and his dreams blended with an awareness of the room around him. 

He was just on the edge of one of those trances when he felt the shift in air pressure. His eyes snapped open, instantly alert and aware of the fact that someone was tiptoeing into his bedroom. Not someone. Lewis. 

Steve didn’t like the idea of bludgeoning a woman with his bedside lamp, but he didn’t discard the idea entirely. If she was there to do him harm, he’d defend himself. She looked harmless enough, creeping blindly through his pitch dark bedroom, but Natasha could look as innocent as a lamb when she chose and he knew exactly how deadly she actually was. He kept still, feigning sleep and watched as she spread her arms wide, fingers splayed and reaching out to pat at walls and furniture, passing right by the bed until she reached the doorway to his bathroom. 

Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. It was the only bathroom in his house (the cabin was not built for guests after all) so it would make sense that she would have to invade his space to use it at some point. The fact that she knew the general direction of where to go evidenced his suspicion that she might have snooped around his home while he was out. It irked him to think of her rifling through the inner sanctum of his home, her lithe fingers running over his bedspread, her sharp, blue eyes absorbing the photos that lined his dresser, learning the faces of every person he’d ever loved. His heart thundered in his chest and it took his considerable control to keep his breathing slow and even. 

He watched her fingers fumble along the wall until she flipped on the bathroom light and he quickly lowered his lids, watching her through his lashes. She’d changed since he’d left her, no longer wearing the crisp, black pantsuit tucked into black leather riding boots from before, replacing them with an oversized t-shirt that fell to a couple inches above her knees and a pair of thick fuzzy socks. She’d changed her hair too, freeing it from it’s neat bun so that it fell in a heavy, riotous curtain around her shoulders. The bathroom light caught around her silhouette, lighting up the ends of her dark curls and giving them a soft red undertone. She made a pretty picture, one he would have liked to capture on paper once upon a time, but he didn’t do that sort of thing much anymore. And certainly not of women who left smudges on his books. 

The door closed and his room was plunged into darkness again, save for the light spilling out beneath the door. He let himself blow out a shaky breath and rolled over onto his belly, tucking his arms under his pillow. He was just on the edge of something like sleep when he felt the bed dip and a set of fingers dug into his bare side. It would have tickled if he hadn’t been so nonplussed by the words she said next.

“Budge over, Captain. You’re in the middle of the bed.” 

Steve blinked and then rose slowly up onto his elbows, turning his head to stare at Agent Lewis, who was now kneeling in his bed, looking blindly down at him, and still pressing insistently at his ribcage.

His voice came out breathless, she’d caught him so off guard. “Excuse me?” Surely the woman had  _ some  _ boundaries. 

“I’m not sleeping on the couch. It’s cold out there and I don’t know how to remake the fire and I couldn’t find any throw blankets. Scoot over.” She pressed at him with both hands this time. 

That would be a  _ no _ on the boundaries then. 

He just gaped at her for a moment. “No,” he eventually said. Not very eloquent, but firm nonetheless. 

“Yes,” she replied, just as firmly, damn her. “The bed is plenty big enough for both of us. Or, it would be if you’d  _ move over.”  _ Here she shoved at him again, her fingers curling in to dig at his ribs. 

To his mortification, the motion forced a breathless giggle from his lips. He quickly rolled up onto his side, gripping both her hands with one of his to pry them from his ticklish ribs. “Stop that,” he grit out. “And get out.” 

She shook her hands from his hold but instead of leaving, she turned her back to him and slid down into the open space he’d made when he’d rolled to his side. She curled up on her side, pulling his bedding up to her chin and tucking  _ his  _ pillow under her head. She shifted down into the mattress slightly, making a soft, contented noise in the back of her throat. 

Steve made a choked sound, something that was part bewildered huff of laughter, half aggravated growl. 

“Goodnight, Steve,” she sighed, her words threaded with smug triumph. 

With a huff, he threw the blankets off his legs and crawled out the other side of the bed. He watched her sprawl a little further into the now open space, a beatific smile on her face. He rounded the bed, his bare feet hitting the floorboards with ominous thuds. Bending low, he scooped her up into his arms along with his blankets, a thrill going through him at the indignant squawk she made as he hoisted her up higher in his arms and then marched her bundled up body back out to his living room. He dropped her unceremoniously on his couch, where she bounced a bit, staring up at him wide-eyed. He dropped his fists to his hips, staring down at her. 

“There, you’ve got blankets to keep you warm.” He hardened his gaze. “Now,  _ stay.”  _

His words rankled her and ire flashed over her face. “I’m not a dog. You can’t speak to me like that.” 

“It’s my house, honey. I can speak to you however the hell I want. Don’t like it, you’re free to go whenever you choose,” he grinned, gesturing to his front door. 

He watched her plump lips pinch and eyes narrow before he turned on his heel and stomped back to his bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him. He suddenly wished he’d had the forethought to put a lock on the door when he’d had the place built, but he hadn’t intended to ever have  _ company.  _ He dug out another set of bedding from the linen closet in his bathroom and crawled back into bed, pleased that she seemed to be listening to his orders to stay put. He smiled smugly into his pillow. His competitive nature had turned this little tete-a-tete with Agent Lewis into some kind of game and he was inordinately pleased to have won this round. 

He fell asleep with surprising ease, and slept heavily for once. 

He still woke with the dawn, of course, but he felt better rested than he had in awhile. He’d slept so thoroughly, in fact, that it took him nearly a full minute to realize that Lewis’ hard head was butting up against his sternum, her knees tucked up and nudging perilously close to his flannel covered groin, and her hair was tangling in the ends of his beard. They were both curled up on their sides, facing each other, and he had one arm curled under his head but the other...his hand had settled against the dip in her waist.  _ Her _ hands were thankfully demurely folded up against her chest. 

He loosed a slow, longsuffering breath from his nose. The breath stirred the hair flung across his face, tickling his lips and nose and serving to kindle his ire. The hand at her waist spasmed, his fingers digging in as he roughly pushed her away. Not enough to hurt her but enough to get her the fuck away from him. The little sneak didn’t even have the decency to wake up. She merely rolled with the movement, stretching her limbs out with a sleepy purr before settling back down. 

His eye started twitching of its own accord and right then, Steve Rogers decided he was no longer going to endure this woman. He was going to get even. He was gonna make her as miserable as she was making him and he was going to enjoy every single second of it.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The torment continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought I forgot about this bad boy. Well I didn't. It has haunted my every waking moment. Enjoy the second chapter of this cracky fever dream.

It took Darcy a minute to remember where she was and why she was there. And another minute to decide if she was a genius or a fool. It had been a long time since she’d crawled into bed with a stranger, though the context was a bit different this time around. She rolled onto her back with a satisfied stretch and groan, luxuriating in the feel of Rogers’ exceptionally comfortable bed. Just the right amount of firmness for someone no longer in their twenties. Her shoulder joints popped as she stretched her arms over her head, her ankles making similar pops in tandem as she stretched her toes towards the foot of the bed. She loosened the tension in her body, settling back down into the mattress on a soft exhale. She took a moment to glance around the bedroom that she’d thoroughly snooped through the day before, determining that Rogers was elsewhere. Sunlight lit up enough of the cozy bedroom for her to decide she’d spent enough time resting and she’d best get back to work breaking the good Captain’s spirit. She ran her tongue absently over her front teeth as she rolled from his bed. Yes, Operation Annoy the Boy was on the agenda for the day. But first, she had a date with the business end of her toothbrush. 

Darcy wandered out of the bedroom and down the short narrow hall to the living area where she’d left her overnight bag. Or at least, she thought she had. She paused, hands on hips and mouth pursed as she gazed around the room. She could have sworn she’d left it tucked against the end of the leather sofa. 

“Looking for something?” 

Darcy turned her head to see Rogers leaning casually against the kitchen entryway, in a pale blue flannel that morning, a steaming mug of coffee in his hands and a suspiciously smug little smirk flitting around the corners of his mouth. Darcy narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes. Have you seen my bag?”

He blinked rapidly at her, eyes going ingenue-wide. “Was that  _ your  _ bag?” His mouth popped open with dismayed shock. “Oh dear. I didn’t realize,” he continued, his tone turning flat. “I’m afraid I thought it was trash and threw it out.” 

Darcy bit back on a sharp retort, opting for terse politeness. “Well, if you’d be so kind as to point me in the direction of your dumpster?” 

Rogers’ smile grew wide and wicked as he gestured with one hand towards the windows lining the front of the cabin. Through the open curtains, Darcy could see a large fire pit out front that was smoking gently with dying embers. She turned slowly back towards Rogers. “You didn’t.” 

He shrugged amiably, smile still in place. “That’s where the trash goes.” 

“You  _ bastard!”  _ she shrieked, charging at him to poke him in the chest. “My favorite pair of boots was in that bag! And my wallet! And passport! And all of my _ clothes!”  _ She could not believe the  _ nerve  _ of this asshole. Sure, she’d been a right jerk herself the previous day but she hadn’t irreparably damaged any of his property. Or left him without a stitch to wear besides his pjs. 

Steve grasped her wrist, twisting it away from his chest and tossing it back at her. “Whoops,” he said dully, eyes flat and angry. “This is so unfortunate. Guess you’ll just have to go home and get some new ones.” 

Darcy was practically vibrating. She was going to kill this motherfucker. She didn’t care if he was an historical figure. Steven Grant Rogers could eat her entire ass.  _ “You...”  _ she growled, but didn’t have an adjective vicious enough to describe him, so she let the sentence drop and stomped back to his bedroom. He stalked after her slowly, sipping at his coffee as he watched her disappear into his closet. 

“I already told you, doll. Your bag went in the fire, not in my closet.” 

She didn’t deign to respond, just found the first pair of boots her eyes landed on and then shoved her feet into them. She stomped back out, knocking into him as she went, pleased to see a good amount of coffee slosh out onto the front of his shirt. “Whoops.” 

Rogers gave her a cold glare. “And where the hell do you think you’re going in  _ my _ boots?”

“To the fucking car,” she mumbled, mostly to herself. 

His tone brightened instantly. “Fantastic, I’ll show you to the door,” he replied, gripping her by the elbow with his free hand and hastening her to the front door. “So sorry you couldn’t stay longer. You’ve been a delight to have. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.” He whipped the door open. 

Darcy jerked her arm from his grip and braced herself against the frigid wind that cut through her thin sleep shirt. It’d be a miracle if she didn’t catch hypothermia on her way to the SUV. She made a mad dash to the car door, throwing it open and leaning in to snatch up her phone that she’d thankfully left charging in the car. She slammed the door shut, already shivering, and dashed back onto his porch, pushing past him again. He spilled more of his coffee with a pained hiss. She was incredibly pleased by this. She doubted his stupid flannel shirt would ever be the same and took vindictive pride in that. He’d burned her clothes to ash. The least she could do was to ruin his wardrobe in return. 

Before he could say something infuriating and she ended up murdering a bitch, Darcy dashed back into his bedroom, slamming the door and plopping down on his bed to plot her next move. 

 

***

 

The dame had been hiding in his bedroom for nearly an hour. Normally Steve would have been concerned, but he had a feeling she was just being a sore loser and she’d be admitting defeat at any moment. He smiled into his coffee mug. It felt good to win for once. He wished she’d hurry up and surrender, though. He’d stripped off his ruined shirt half an hour ago to soak and he’d really like access to his closet for another. He wasn’t cold or anything, due to the good blaze going in the fireplace and his home was well made and properly insulated, but it felt strange to sit in his leather chair shirtless. Especially while a strange woman was trespassing in his home. 

_ Speak of the devil.  _ His bedroom door was flung open and a pissy looking Agent Lewis appeared in his living room, stomping her way to his front door and resolutely avoiding eye contact with him. She was still wearing his boots...and had supplemented her lack of wardrobe with a significant portion of his. She wore a pair of his jeans, tied around her waist with what looked like the belt to his robe. She’d hiked the pants as high as the inseam would let her, but that didn’t keep the too-long pant legs from puddling around her ankles. She’d donned one of his flannels and he could see his long johns peeking out from beneath the collar of the flannel shirt. Her hands were stuffed into a pair of his gloves and one of his woolen caps was pulled low over ears and brow. She would look adorable if she wasn’t such a huge pain in the ass. 

He rose from his chair, making sure to set his mug down on his coffee table. He’d had enough coffee spilled on him that morning, thank you very much. “And where do you think you’re going with my things?” Lewis stopped in her tracks, and he was pleased to see one of her eyes start to twitch. She turned slowly on her heel to face him, mouth opening to say something likely incredibly unpleasant. As soon as her eyes landed on him, they went wide for a brief moment and her mouth closed with a sharp click. He watched her eyes dart down to his chest and then back up to his face. He felt stupid for the urge, but he had to fight the sudden desire to cover his chest with his hands. Like some blushing maiden.  _ Christ.  _

“For your information, I’m going for a  _ walk.  _ And because somebody decided to turn my things into firestarter, I had to resort to borrowing your stuff so I don’t freeze to death.” 

“Yeah, that would be so sad.”

“Oh,  _ fuck you,  _ Rogers,” she snapped, flipping him the bird and turning to leave. She paused for a moment to glare at him over her shoulder. “And if you even  _ think  _ about trying to lock me out while I’m gone, I swear on my Nana Lewis’ grave that I will burn your fucking house to the ground.” 

Steve raised his hands in faux innocence. “I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.” Of course, that had been his immediate plan when she’d said she was leaving. But he reassessed and came to the conclusion that, yeah, she absolutely would be crazy enough to play arsonist. And he’d  _ just _ gotten the cabin decorated exactly how he wanted it. He’d have to brainstorm new ways of getting her to vacate the premises while she was out. 

Lewis didn’t respond other than to slam his front door behind her hard enough to make the walls rattle. At least he was getting a little payback while he waited for her to give up, he thought as he smirked to himself. 

She returned half an hour later, covered in fresh snow, shivering, and carrying...a giant black duffle bag. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the bag she was struggling under the weight of. 

She dropped it with a whump in his entryway and dusted her hands over herself, dislodging snow all over his hardwood floors. She stomped her feet, causing more little piles of snow to drift to the floor that would quickly become puddles that would warp the flooring if he didn’t get it dried up quickly. This  _ goddamn woman.  _ She popped his hat off her head, tossing it onto the floor too with a triumphant smile. 

“This?” she asked, kicking one corner of the duffle. “This is all the supplies that I requested Coulson airdrop to me since all of my things were tragically ruined.” She smiled wider at him, brushing past him into the kitchen and pouring herself a cup of coffee. She took a sip, humming with pleasure at the flavor or heat of it. Steve just stared at her dumbfounded. “What?” she asked, blinking at him. “You didn’t think I’d figure out that you’d clearly have to have semi regular supply drops out here in the middle of nowhere? I mean, it’s not like I saw a vehicle anywhere to get you to the closest town. So it made sense to me that a quick call to Coulson and a trip to the nearest open field would be the answer to all my problems. And I let him know I’d be here a while, so he made sure to pack me  _ lots _ of goodies.”  

She stepped closer to him, patting condescendingly at his (thankfully clothed) chest. This woman really had no concept of personal space. “Because I’m here for the long haul, buddy. Lucky you.” She smiled pertly up at him and he briefly fantasized about wrapping his hands around her pale, slender throat and  _ throttling _ her. 

Instead, he settled for tossing away the hand that still rested against his left pectoral. “Stop touching me,” he grit out. 

She turned away from him, unperturbed, and opened up his cabinet, rifling through until she found his cookie tin. “That’s rich,” she said around a mouthful of cookie. “Coming from a man that gets kinda...grabby in his sleep.” She cut her eyes to the side to look at him, her brow arched, lips curved in a half-smirk. 

Steve felt his face flush and he cursed his fair Irish heritage for telling on him. He made a strangled noise of frustration and an about face, tossing his hands in the air as he practically fled from the too-small space of the kitchen and that stupid, knowing look in Lewis’ eyes.

 

***

 

Two hours later, Darcy was sitting comfortably in Rogers’ leather armchair, dressed in her own clothing once more, and enjoying one of the books she’d snatched from his bookshelf, when Rogers reappeared from where he’d been hiding out in his bedroom. Darcy looked up at him expectantly where he stood in the middle of the living area, his hands on his hips, clearly chewing on something he wanted to say to her. He finally raised one hand to point accusatorily at her. 

“What I do in my sleep is unintentional,” he burst out, another blush riding high on his cheeks. “And furthermore, your touching  _ has _ been intentional, and therefore objectively, morally worse.” 

Darcy’s brows rose higher at each stilted sentence, a vindictive smile lighting up her face the darker Rogers’ blush became. “Ok?” she said, not even attempting to keep the amusement from her voice. 

Rogers’ full mouth bunched in annoyance at the conversation  _ clearly  _ not going in the direction he’d intended. “So...I’m right and you’re wrong and you need to get out of my fucking house,” he rambled angrily. 

Darcy made a short sound of glee in the back of her throat and then picked her book back up. She didn’t look up as she replied, “And deprive a sad, old man from getting to regularly cop a feel for the first time in a century? I would never be so cruel.” 

She was still staring down at her book so she didn’t see so much as  _ hear _ Rogers have a short aneurysm, making the most satisfying sound of aggravation before he disappeared out the front door in a right snit. God, he was so much fun to torment. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fighting. More friction and just a teensy bit of UST.

Steve looked forlornly into the empty tin between his hands, nary a crumb to be found. That broad had eaten all his cookies  _ again.  _ At this point, he wasn’t even sure if she was doing it to drive him nuts or because she genuinely couldn’t get enough of them. They were a simple butter cookie, nothing fancy, but it was a recipe his Ma had taught him and it was one of the few things he could bake without ruining in some way. He’d made four batches in the two weeks that Lewis had been squatting in his home and he’d barely gotten to eat more than a handful of them. It was bullshit, was what it was, he thought as he tossed the empty tin into the sink with a clatter. He started pulling ingredients for another batch of cookies that he was determined to eat all of the moment they were out of the oven, just so Lewis wouldn’t get a single bite. Burned tongue be damned. 

He tugged at the too tight hem of the cable knit sweater he was wearing that  _ used  _ to hang comfortably around his broad frame and was once a nice cream color. It had been his favorite sweater, right up until one of Darcy’s brilliant red, erm  _ undergarments,  _ had found its way into his laundry basket and subsequently turned the sweater an atrocious shade of pink. He flushed thinking of the moment he’d fished the damp brassiere from his washing machine. He’d gone scarlet then, too, wide-eyed in disbelief. 

Darcy, who was passing through the laundry room on the way to doing something devious (probably) had made a cheerful noise and snagged the bra from where it dangled from his forefinger. “I was wondering where this little guy went, thanks for washing it for me Steve-o!” 

Steve grit his teeth at the new nickname and ignored her in favor of digging the rest of his clothes out of the wash to transfer to the dryer. He’d gotten one look at his newly pink sweater and heard Lewis snicker from behind him. 

“Oh no, bud. Did your sweater get turned pink or was it always that color?” He hadn’t answered other than a low growl. “Oh geez,” she exclaimed insincerely. “My grandma taught me a foolproof method to fix this,” she said, snatching the sweater from his hands. “Don’t worry, Steve-o, I’ll have this right as rain in no time!” And then she was dashing off with his ruined sweater. When she’d finally returned it, she’d ‘ruefully’ bemoaned that she’d done her best. All she’d done was to make the pink somehow  _ splotchier  _ and the sweater was now about two sizes too small. 

When he’d complained at her miserable attempt at rectifying the sweater mishap, she’d merely shrugged and cruelly smiled at him. “At least it’s not a pile of ash, huh?”

Steve was going to have to visit a dentist soon if he didn’t stop grinding his teeth every time that woman opened her mouth. 

He wore his ravaged sweater now as an act of defiance. Like hell was he going to let her think she’d won  _ anything.  _ Sure, he could have bought another just like it, but it was the principle of the thing. He tugged again at the bottom hem where it was rising up enough to expose a sliver of his skin above his jeans. He probably looked ridiculous, squeezed into that pink sweater and whisking eggs in a stainless steel mixing bowl. He certainly felt ridiculous. Too bad he always followed through on his ideas, even if they turned out to be incredibly stupid...and tight. 

 

***

 

She honestly had no idea he was going to actually wear the sweater. She’d been expecting him to throw it out in a fit of self-righteous rage, blue eyes burning and angular jaw clenching beneath his beard. The stubborn little shit had decided to wear it anyway. Darcy watched him discreetly from where she sat in the living area, craning her neck a little to see him mixing up something in the kitchen. His back was to her, and  _ whoo boy,  _ what a nice back it was...and backside. Darcy knew it was probably a bad idea to ogle your enemy but, well, she was hormonal and he was built like  _ that.  _ And the sweater, as dumb as it looked, wasn’t exactly helping her case. She could see every line of his torso, from his broad shoulders, to his incredibly slim waist. The bottom of the sweater was riding up just enough for her to catch glimpses of a truly divine Adonis belt every time he twisted and pulled anything down from the cabinets above his kitchen counter. With his back to her, she could see the indents on either side of his spine just above his jeans. 

Darcy fanned at herself and turned her attention back to the mess of knitting she had in her lap. There were quite a few snarls and mistakes in it due to her, um, distraction of the last few minutes. She clucked her tongue in dismay and set it aside to redo later. It was getting far too hot in front of the fire anyway. It was definitely  _ only _ the fire that had heat flooding her chest and making her mouth desert dry. She licked her lips and unfurled from his leather armchair to traipse into the kitchen. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, shoulders stiffening as she hopped up to sit on the counter next to where he was sifting flour into a steel bowl. 

“Whatcha makin’ there?” 

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” She leaned over to peer down into the bowl, bringing her close enough to check out its contents and, coincidentally, bringing her head a few inches from Rogers’. “Oooh! More cookies?” she asked in genuine excitement, whipping her head around to face him. If it weren’t for his lightning reflexes, the turn of her head would have had their noses bumping together. As it was, Rogers quickly jerked away from her, taking his bowl with him. Darcy didn’t let that stop her, and reached out to try and snag some dough. 

He swatted her hand away. “No,” he told her firmly. “None for you.” 

Darcy narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fine, I needed to lay off on all the cookies anyway. I’m not getting enough exercise cooped up in this cabin to justify them.”

Steve’s eyes flickered over her form where she was still perched on his counter, heels idly kicking against the lower cabinets. “You’re fine,” he said tersely, eyes returning resolutely to the bowl cradled in the crook of his arm. “I’m just tired of you not leaving any for me, so this batch is all for me.  _ Only me.  _ You hear me, Lewis?” He glanced back up at her. 

Darcy raised her hands in surrender. “Fine, fine,” she said. She dropped her hands back into her lap, watching as he continued mixing...waiting for her moment to strike. He set the bowl back on the counter next to her and Darcy saw her opening. Just as he was turning to set his rubber spatula aside, she darted her hand out and dipped her finger into the bowl, scooping a hunk of dough as she went. Her finger was halfway to her mouth when Steve’s massive hand wrapped around her wrist. 

“No!” he barked, jerking her finger away from her mouth and glaring at her. “I said  _ only  _ for me, you spiteful little shit.” And then, still glaring at her, he viciously pulled her hand towards himself and quickly popped her cookie covered finger into his mouth. Something like triumph flickered in Steve’s eyes up until the penny dropped and he must have realized he had put them in a rather intimate situation. Darcy sat frozen on the counter, her senses narrowed down to nothing but the warm, wet feel of his mouth around her finger. He seemed momentarily frozen as well, panic clearly spasming across his features. In the next moment, she felt his tongue move against her finger as he licked the glob of dough from her and then quickly slid the appendage from between his lips. 

Darcy made a muted squawk as he stepped back from her, releasing his grip on her wrist. Her hand hovered between them and she could do nothing but stare open mouthed at first her glistening finger and then his  _ deeply  _ uncomfortable face. She shifted where she sat on the counter and came back to her senses enough to try and salvage the situation. Maybe. 

“Ew, Rogers. Really?” she said, hopping down from the counter so she could swipe her finger repeatedly across the swath of sweater covering his belly. She curled her lip in disgust and spun on her heel to get out of there before she combusted. Stupid hormones. Stupid cookies. Stupid, stubborn man. 

 

***

 

Wow, he really could be such a dumbass sometimes, Steve thought. He continued to berate himself as he stress ate through a dozen cookies. In the kitchen. Where he was still hiding an hour later after he’d…. _ christ.  _ He scrubbed a hand over his face, forgetting it was covered in greasy cookie crumbs and making a mess of his beard. Making a goddamn mess of everything today, he thought. He groaned softly, shaking himself a little. He rose from the kitchen chair, determined to face down the enemy that he’d somehow managed to embarrass himself in front of. Again. 

And by “face her down,” he meant “ignore her entirely as he hastily passed her on his way to his bedroom.” She did not, thankfully, say anything to him as he passed by the living area and he was able to hide away in his room without incident. The first thing he did was to strip off his sweater and toss it into the waste basket that sat beside the desk he had tucked in one corner of the room. It was now just a monument to his complete lack of forethought, one he’d prefer to forget as soon as possible. He changed into a soft, long sleeved t-shirt, then sank into his desk chair with a sigh. He probably should have grabbed a book or something to keep him occupied while he was avoiding her. Without that option available, he tapped his fingers against the oak desktop, eyes glazing over as he stared out the window to the winter wonderland outside. Frost had gathered along the edges of the panes, warping the light streaming through. 

Steve inhaled slowly and let the tension drain from his body, if only for a minute. He decided he might as well be productive and pulled a legal pad and pencil over to him and began compiling a grocery list. He’d have to type it up later to send to Coulson, but he found he was less likely to forget things if he wrote it down on paper first. 

He zoned out about halfway down the page, realizing he’d been doodling a pair of eyes for several minutes. He frowned, scratching through the drawing with his pencil, crumpling it up, and tossing the paper into the trash. He began his list again, only to find himself drawing a nose in profile. He sat up, realizing what he was doing and just sort of stared in bewilderment. 

He hadn’t been able to draw anything in several years. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He was capable of it, he had just lost all desire to do it. Really, he’d lost all desire to do  _ anything _ that had once brought him happiness. And yet, here he was, doodling facial features as if he hadn’t sworn off art altogether. He was enjoying it, too, lost to the smooth feel of the pencil between his fingers, the soft scratching of the graphite against the paper. He loosed a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and then tentatively brought his pencil back to paper, slowly filling in more features to go with the nose on the page. When he had added a few more details-- an ear, the corner of a full mouth, long lashes fanning out from an eye-- he choked in surprise. He’d drawn  _ her.  _ Damnit, he was finally feeling a tiny piece of happiness, getting a speck of himself back, and it had to be of  _ her,  _ the woman who had made his life a nightmare for the last two weeks? 

He was cursed. That was the only explanation.

 

***

 

“Why is there a drawing of me in the trash can?” 

Goddamnit. Definitely cursed. 

“Because...I can’t throw  _ you _ away, so I had to resort to the next best thing. It was very cathartic.” He grinned snidely, pleased that he’d pulled that lie out of his ass so quickly. He scooted down further into his bed, lifting his book back up and resting it on his belly to read. Darcy crawled in next to him, as she did every damn night, and turned on her bedside lamp. Steve glanced out of the corner of his eye to see her scrutinizing the drawing in the lamplight. His shoulders bunched up higher and he willed away the rising embarrassment making his gut roil. 

“Huh,” she said, piquing his curiosity. 

“What?” he asked, unable to quell the self conscious tone of the word. 

“Nothing. Just wasn’t expecting you to be...well, an artist.” 

“I’m not,” he grumbled, glaring at his book. 

“Uh, yes you are. This is...an exact likeness of me. I mean, damn. This is really, really good.” 

He glanced at her again and was slightly stunned to see her smiling faintly at the drawing in her hands. A real smile, despite being small, and it was enough to make her softly glow. “That’s, um, thank you?”

She turned her head to face him, smile growing wider. “You’re welcome. Hey, you know what you should do? Come with me to D.C. and open an art gallery! And maybe while you’re doing that, also stop in to have a little chit chat with Coulson. Whaddya think, Steve-o?” 

“Not a chance,” he replied dully. He rolled away from her onto his side, switching off his lamp and setting his book on his bedside table. “Goodnight Lewis.”

 

***

 

Steve woke from a heavy sleep to the soft sound of whimpering coming from the other side of the bed. In his sleep-addled state, he was momentarily baffled how such a vulnerable sound could come from Lewis, but no, that was definitely her trembling and crying across from him in the dark. 

“Lewis?” She didn’t respond, giving neither verbal nor physical confirmation that she’d heard him. Perplexed, he reached out toward her shuddering body but stopped, his hand just shy of her shoulder. In the next moment, she mumbled out in a distressed tone, rolling until she was facing him. Tears glinted on her cheeks under the moonlight, though her eyes were closed. Steve blinked, unsure of what to do. He considered leaving her to her bad dreams and going back to sleep, but he wasn’t fooling himself with that idea. No way would he be able to sleep with that on his conscience. 

He scooted closer to her, reaching for her again and this time making contact with her shoulder. “Lewis,” he called softly, and then when she didn’t respond, “Darcy?” He gripped her shoulder tighter, giving her a little shake as he did so. The whimpering suddenly cut off and was replaced with a series of frantic shrieks as Lewis shot up in bed, arms flailing at him as if she were under attack. Steve dodged her blows, sitting up and grasping her wrists to keep her from hurting either of them. “Darcy!” he barked, alarmed at her reaction. “Hey, kid, it was just a bad dream.”

Darcy abruptly stopped struggling against him. “Steve?” she asked, her throat sounding raw. 

“Yeah.” He released her wrists. 

“Cripes,” she said, her voice muffled as she dropped her face into her hands and curled her knees up to her chest. 

And then promptly started sobbing. 

Steve was at a complete and utter loss as to what to do. He wasn’t any better with crying women than crying babies. He hesitantly reached between them, patting stiffly at her shoulder. “There...there?”

The sobbing morphed into some kind of wet laughter. “Jesus, Rogers. Don’t hurt yourself.” 

Really? Here he was, completely out of his element but attempting to comfort his temporary nemesis, and she was making fun of him? He snatched his hand back and turned on his bedside lamp so she could better see his self-righteous glare. 

That was a mistake. Yeah, she could now better appreciate his irritation, but he could also see her in turn and...it was bad. Bad as in, he felt like a complete asshole despite everything because  _ she  _ looked so goddamn miserable. Her pale skin was flushed, eyes red and puffy, lips quivering slightly as she tried valiantly to pull herself together. “You…” he started, clearing his throat. “You wanna...talk about it?” He let his hands settle awkwardly into his lap.

Lewis swept at her eyes with delicate, trembling fingers. “Not much to talk about. Just been witness to one too many apocalypses.” Steve looked at her askance at that revelation. She snorted. “Weren’t expecting that, were you? I’m not your average SHIELD lackey. I was there when Thor was banished to earth. I was there again for that Dark Elves business in London. And I guess we all had front row seats for that bullshit with Thanos. All of us that didn’t turn to ash, anyway.” 

Steve stared open-mouthed. “We got them all back. Eventually.” 

She sniffed and gave him a wry smile. “Yeah. Doesn’t make the memories any less horrifying, does it?”

He looked away, gaze lost on his fingers twisting together in his lap. “No. No it doesn’t,” he said softly. 

They sat together quietly for a long time, neither looking at the other, lost to their own memories, until the sky began to turn the lavender-gray of a swiftly approaching dawn.


End file.
